My dear old friend, can't believe you're here, old friend

[lethermindwander]

It had been so many years since she had stepped foot in Paris. Her son, Charles, was about to turn seven, so it at least had to have been that long. Oh, her beautiful son. She was glad that he was now off at boarding school. He did not need to partake in witnessing his mother relive her past and make this pilgrimage back to her father's grave. It already gave her such pause to have to drag Raoul back to this city as well. This was not something he needed, to watch his lovely wife turn into a ghost once more. She knew it hurt him but Christine did her best. They were so outwardly happy. The perfect marriage, their perfect child. She always regretted that she'd never been able to leave the fantasy behind.

Today though, she is just visiting the cemetery. She goes alone, making sure to leave before Raoul has a chance to even know she's left their little hotel room. She hopes that she will also return before he wakes.

Everything is familiar here and yet so much more dreary and cold that she remembers. It's the middle of Summer and Christine feels a chill. When she makes her way to her father's grave, she realizes that this had been a horrid mistake. She shouldn't have come alone. The feelings, more intense than she's felt in a long time, come bubbling to the surface and she runs back to the brougham before it has a chance to leave without her. She idly gives the driver her hotel's address, falling back into her seat. She neglects to tell him to take the long way back.

When the Opera comes into view, Christine found she could no longer breathe. As soon as she cries out for the driver to stop, she realizes that this will be an even bigger mistake than the first she has made today. But she must. She has to do this, hypnotized by the beautiful golden columns of the structure before her. Apollo's Lyre perched upon the roof.

She steps out of the carriage and finds herself on the Rue Scribe side of the building. She stares up at it in wonder. How little of it has changed. How much has, how she recognizes none of the names advertised on any of the posters. The ghost has returned, looking for the soul she left in the bowels of this theater.

Comments

FINALLY I CRAWL OUT OF MY FUNK TO GET THIS GOING; WATCH ME IGNORE EVERY CANON

[duballet]

The thing to do, the proper thing, the smart thing, would have been to leave the opera forever after that tragedy. Certainly Meg's mother turned away, such a jarring thing to see the ballet mistress apart from her ballet; she took up in a flat nearby, surviving on money that seemed to come from nowhere, until one morning she did not wake, and was only found by her landlady.

Certainly Meg had tried to flee, too; she made herself invaluable in a traveling ballet company, saw the great cities of Europe between performances where she was not the ballet mistress' daughter or even a witness to mysterious, supernatural horrors. She tried to believe that her mother understood why she dropped her surname, traveled under the coy pseudonym Margaux Voclain; it afforded her more opportunity, a reputation of her own that wasn't tied to disasters she had no control over her.

But she'd returned to Paris when her mother passed, sent for to clean up what little remained of her life, and she'd found she had no desire to wander, at least for the time being. So Margaux Voclain accepted roles with the opera that Meg Giry had grown up in, with no nepotism involved but gladness to have her back, and here, for some time now, she's stayed.

She knows, deep in her bones, that she'll never leave the opera house, not really. She knows that any fanciful promises made to her mother were just stories, ephemera, and she's all right with that. What she's seen of the upper class she doesn't want part of. She expects her fate will be much like her mother's: grow old in the theatre, go from performing to coaching, fade away with no witnesses when the time comes. This should disturb her more than it does.

There is a rhythm to her life, the same practice-perform-rest pattern that each day seems to follow. She has no intention of this changing, because it's what she knows and in the end that's more important than most people realize, but she can't help but inviting change when she sees a possibly familiar face lingering outside. It couldn't be -- she hadn't --

"Christine?" Meg whispers, approaching delicately.

Yesss. I am so excited for this. SO EXCITED.

[lethermindwander]

The longer Christine looks at the Opera, the more she watches the bustling people starting to flood the Parisian streets, her heart breaks. It's crumbling apart and she lets it. She misses him. She misses Erik in such a profound way that she can't really even begin to describe it. The love that Allah had tried to forbid, the rose and the nightingale. It's one of her greatest regrets, not realizing how much he meant to her sooner.

She thinks back to their final night together, when the peace that had eluded him for so long had finally come. She remembers holding his hand, those cold, already death-like fingers going limp against hers. It hurts so much and the fact that it does makes Christine feel so incredibly guilty.

She's nearly brought herself to tears when Meg calls her name. It gives her a distraction, a reason to stop dwelling on things she cannot change now. Instead, she stares at her old friend, marveling in how much she has changed. Honestly, if Meg hadn't stopped her, Christine probably wouldn't have recognized her. She's been a terrible friend, hasn't she. The last time she had even spoke to Meg was shortly before marrying Raoul and fleeing to England.

"What are the chances," Christine says, forcing herself to smile. She is surprised to see her here but the distraction is so, so very welcome. Still, it's hard for her to muster up the innocent, giddy, girlish energy she'd had in her youth.

"Hello, Meg. I trust that I find you well?"

that was a little lie I'm still in the depths BUT THIS IS BEAUTIFUL AND A REASON TO BE AWAKE

[duballet]

Truth told, Meg had expected she'd never see Christine again. They'd been the dearest of friends, or anyway Meg had thought they were, growing up together, dancing, giggling, but Christine -- she had only belonged to this world on a sort of contingency. She had her great passion, then she had a way out, and she wanted to take it. Even now Meg does not resent the long silence between them, merely accept it as a fact.

She resists the temptation to drop into a curtsy; while it's her first impulse, she knows it would seem a bit mean, parodying their differences. There'd be no point in that, nor is it what she really wants.

(Briefly, she has flashes of what might be: has Christine come back to Paris for good? Or at least, for a good long while? Meg's rarely alone these days, but she'd be glad of the company from someone who knows all of her. Would Christine sing again? It would be much-welcomed; they've a new leading soprano, of course, but she can't hold a candle. Is this better than just a chance meeting?)

She notices, too, the lack of light in Christine's eyes. It worries her, but she doesn't feel close enough anymore to her to suppose anything out loud.

Instead, she widens her smile, steps closer cautiously like she doesn't want to spook Christine.

"I have no complaints," she replies airily. "Might I ask what brings you?"

BABY. THIS IS A REASON TO BE ~*~*ALIVE*~*~

[lethermindwander]

Christine is well aware of how her departure from the theatre probably looked. That she had simply abandoned it when a rich aristocrat took an interest. A thousand girls before her took that path and a thousand would do so after her as well. No one could blame her after the strange affair of the Opera Ghost. But Christine honestly couldn't imagine returning to it now. It would feel wrong. She's afraid that every time she would let the music flow forth, she'd end up like this. A broken mess, just barely able to hold herself together. True, she still sang for her son but that was different. That was singing hymns and snippets of arias to get him to sleep or keep him entertained or helping him with particularly tricky rhythms when he played piano. Not that he needed her help much anymore, such a prodigy, that boy.

"Business, mostly," Christine replies, "Raoul tries to conduct his affairs from London but he found that these particular matters in Paris could no longer be dealt with from so far away." There's more to their journey than that but Christine doesn't feel as if she can divulge.

Though she wants to. Meg had been there for her for so long and now she had never even heard the full story, the full ending to what had happened to her so long ago. What she had actually felt, not just what it had all appeared to be. She's barely spoken of it since. Not even with Raoul. As much as she loved him and he loved she, the unpleasant parts of their past tended to stay there. Neither wished to acknowledge the truth that Christine's heart may have been with Raoul, but her soul was dead and buried in this theatre.

"I've had the day to myself so I've been...reminiscing," Or haunting, more like, "But I'm sure you don't wish to hear about that, my life is not terribly exciting. Please, indulge me, I wish to hear about everything you've done since we last spoke so many years ago, my friend." Her smile grows wider as she finds it easier to push away the things that are tormenting her for the moment. The least she can do is wholly give her focus to Meg. She reaches forward to place a hand on Meg's shoulder, a friendly gesture in hopes that this is the sort of friendship that can resume in the place that it left off.

[duballet]

If anyone had said such a thing in Meg's hearing, she would have slapped them. Not that it mattered, given that she left so soon, but if, hypothetically, that had happened, she'd have done it. Christine deserved respect, after the horrors she'd been through especially but also simply because she was a good person who'd never done anything to hurt anyone and Meg's true friend.

Perhaps Meg is more sentimental than she'd ever let on. That's likely.

She nods thoughtfully, fairly sure Christine wasn't going into details. That doesn't upset her. Christine was, after all, often cagey, and it was something Meg had early on learned to accept. Meg, in turn, always tried to offer what she could and not worry about offering what she couldn't.

"Of course I'd like to hear about things, if they're important to you," Meg reminds, smiling gently in turn. She blinks, a bit surprised by the request though she knows she's no reason to be. Instead of anything else, though, she gestures to smaller print on one of the posters, where her pseudonym is displayed. "Of late, this is what I've done."

[lethermindwander]

The inkling in the back of her mind keeps growing that she should perhaps provide more information. To get everything off of her chest and into the open because there was no one that she could truly talk to anymore. Perhaps it would do her some good, could The few friends she had in London, none of them were like Meg. Christine had always needed to keep up appearances, not wanting to let anyone see her and Raoul as anything less than perfect. Not to mention that there was no real way to determine if any of those friends would be trustworthy. The secrets Christine wished to spill would surely mean a scandal, despite her and Raoul largely trying to avoid the limelight.

But she could tell Meg. Meg would not spread rumors or use that information to gain social standing. Still, she holds back, feeling like the time and distance is far too great between them to start regaling so quickly. It's much easier to focus on Meg's accomplishments.

"Margaux Voclain?" Christine questions, "You make yourself seem so mysterious." Not that she can talk.

"Did you...ever leave?" Because Christine is suddenly stricken with guilt. Her anxious mind immediately draws the conclusion that Meg started going by another name to avoid any unnecessary questions. To avoid nosy people. Something that Christine's running had most definitely spared her from.

[duballet]

It helped, perhaps, that Meg didn't live in such a world. The opera was rife with rumors and scandals, tumultuous affairs and woebegone lovers, but it didn't hold the same sort of weight. In the opera, it was almost more suspicious that Meg hadn't been involved in any grand affair of that kind. She'd been at the sideline, of course, but she was almost too reticent with her own personal matters; she avoided fretting over such things too much, too.

And she would especially never judge Christine in any damning way. Not when she knew, or at least had once known, who Christine truly was.

She could sense some of that worry, so she affected a wide smile. "I toured the continent for a few years, dancing," she explained, because it was easy to start with that. "I suppose I wanted a name and a life for myself apart from anyone's ideas of me, apart from being my mother's daughter." Avoiding the questions about what had happened was a benefit, but the other was true, too, and better to mention. "I traveled, danced, had some middling adventures like a girl abroad might." What they were didn't matter, because it was a stepping-stone in the story. "But I was called back here when Maman passed, to tend to her things, and I found I'd missed it."

[lethermindwander]

"Certainly an admirable quest," Christine replies. True freedom from everything, from family, from the past. It's something she's often thought about, though she knows it would be unattainable for her. First she had been Gustave Daaé's daughter, then she had been the Angel's pupil, the rising star in Paris. Then she had been Raoul's wife and Charles' mother. So much of her life had been defined by others and now, as she was growing older, Christine had begun to resent that.

"I'm sorry," the color fades from her face further as she learns of Mme. Giry's passing, "I'm so sorry, Meg." She knows how difficult it can be to lose a parent. Immediately, most of the barriers that Christine has built around herself come crashing down, allowing her to throw her arms around her friend in a tight embrace. Forget being polite about this. The sudden knowledge of this fills her with grief, having seen Meg's mother as a replacement for her own.

"But I am glad that you have found yourself here. Our paths may never have crossed again if you hadn't."

[duballet]

Meg shrugs, going a bit pink. "I saw the chance, and I took it," she says, feeling almost embarrassed for reasons she can't understand. "I thought it would be nice to see something of the world, since I'd only ever been here. Turns out it all feels the same when you're backstage waiting to go on." She doesn't mean this dismissively, rather she means it for true. There were different sights to see in different cities, but for what Meg did, this was good as anything.

Maybe that's why she feels so timid. Christine, having lost a parent, would likely have done very much to get him back, but Meg, having had one, had fled for reasons that may or may not have been selfish. Her going away had never been an explicit point of contention, but it certainly hadn't done anything to ease the relationship or make it stronger, either.

And Christine had been a part of the family as well, hadn't she? Had she even written Christine that this had happened? She can't remember and she feels awful about it. Not so awful, of course, that she doesn't return the hug, though it stuns her. "Thank you," she whispers into Christine's hair, soaking up the comfort for a minute before she pulls back to speak much more rationally. "I miss her every day, but I would hope that she is proud of who I am and what I've done."

Another moment passes before she feels it appropriate to smile again, but oh, she does! "I am glad of that too," she agrees. "I... I've missed you."

[lethermindwander]

"I'd have loved to see the world. Well, more of it than I saw as a child, in any case," Christine sighs. She remembers fondly the days that she and her father had traveled throughout Sweden, Germany and Belgium before finally settling (for the most part) in France. Now, she was mostly bound, or at least she felt that way. Her health was often an issue. Raoul had been reluctant to let her come to France with him.

To be honest, Christine can't even remember if she gave Meg her new address in London so that writing to her would even be a possibility. Fleeing out of France had been such a quick affair, both her and Raoul eager to leave the ghost behind. She can easily forgive Meg for not sending word of Mme. Giry's passing.

"I can't imagine that she wouldn't be proud of you, Meg," Christine says, "You've done so much."

As they pause, Christine takes a moment to simply admire her friend. How much she's grown, become so elegant. Meg had always been a particularly graceful person but now, every motion she made seemed to be perfectly poised. Christine can't even imagine how horrible she would look in comparison if she tried to dance now.

"I've missed you as well, my friend," her smile easily matches Meg's. "If you have no appointments this morning, I think that we should find someplace to go to catch up a bit more. I believe there's a few stories that I owe to be told."

[duballet]

Meg nods, her expression pure sympathy. Christine is the sort of woman who would be at home in the great cities. Who would seem like a painting amongst the landmarks, grand and lovely. Christine has always belonged to that sort of world. Meg, however, is the sort who doesn't have near enough class, whose version of a sympathetic response is, "Lot of it starts to blend together after a while, if you're in the same sort of places in each bit of it."

She shrugs casually. It's true what Christine observes, she's cultivated a great deal of poise, but some of it is for performing's sake and some of it is simply self-defense. Poise knocks questions away.

She frowns, bites her lip. "Not so much compared to some, but more compared to others," she says in half-agreement. "Still I wonder. But it's no matter."

Here, she beams once more, because it's certainly easier. "I could suggest some places," she offers.

[lethermindwander]

Her response elicits a small laugh from Christine. She imagines that's probably very true. How different could stages all across Europe really be? Especially ones suited for the ballets and operas that Meg was likely to be cast in. She knows though, through conversations from a time long gone by that this particular theater had been designed with a particular grandeur in mind, having a larger stage than most. It seems poetic for them both to end up back here, though Christine still had no plans of making any sort of triumphant return.

"Let us be on our way then," Christine replies with a grin. She turns away from the Palais Garnier, wishing to put it behind her. They'll have to come back, she knows. There was an unmistakable pull that was drawing her back in to put the ghost to rest. She was just woefully unprepared for that right now. That and it would be terribly unfair to force Meg to see her in such a state of distress without at least preparing her for it.

[duballet]

All of the good fortune Meg has had, she attributes to luck, though she's worked very hard for everything she's got. Seeing fine places, having what others might call adventures, that's all chance. She's known dancers with just as much or more talent than her who haven't had half the experiences, more brilliant people with better souls who...

It's not important, of course. It just simply is.

Casually, she offers Christine her arm, like they might have done when they were children. "Would you prefer someplace private?" she asks.

[lethermindwander]

"Privacy is relative, I suppose," Christine says, easily slipping her arm through Meg's. It's such a simple thing. Innocent but expressing solidarity in a way that Christine hasn't experienced in a while.

"I highly doubt anyone would recognize me anymore. Raoul and I most certainly try to stay out of the limelight these days. We could be just as along on a crowded street as behind closed doors," she explains a bit further, though it really doesn't give Meg a straight answer. There are advantages of being alone, there are advantages to being in a more public place. It would be far easier to suppress some of her emotions with more people surrounding them. She wouldn't wish to make a scene and be labeled as hysterical. She also recognizes that it's not the wisest plan to hold back her feelings forever.

[duballet]

Being recognized isn't why Meg asked, and she's fairly sure Christine knows that in her heart. The Christine she once knew was a private person, not one to let everybody know her every thought, and she's trying to respect that. (It must have been awful, having everyone see into her after what happened. Meg's still not sure how she herself would have managed.)

But the statements are offered so lightly, so gently that Meg takes it as a sign. She'll proceed that way, too.

"I know a park," she suggests. "It's small, sometimes visited by ladies and their dogs but rarely by anyone else. I go sometimes when I feel I'm supposed to commune with nature." She says this last as almost a joke.

[lethermindwander]

It may seem like a contradiction to anyone else, using a crowd to protect herself. Christine has always been a peculiar person, hasn't she? Being in public will force her to be vague. Though honestly, if anyone did bother to eavesdrop on the coming conversation, Christine imagined that they'd simply end up thinking that she was sharing the plot of the latest Gothic novel she had read with her friend.

Sometimes truth was stranger than fiction, wasn't it.

"I suppose that you must, from time to time. To truly feel the plight of a wood nymph in Rusalka," Christine teases gently, "The park sounds like a splendid idea."

[duballet]

She'd understand, if it were to be explained. Or she'd try. There's something about the feeling of being alone in the crowd; there's something safer about being in the chorus or the corps de ballet than performing solos, after all. You aren't singled out. You're part of a whole. It's not always what's wanted, but -- especially after Christine has experienced such singular attention -- it might be an advantage sometimes.

Meg's gotten a bit philosophical. Product of travel, perhaps, or just life.

"Something like that," she agrees with a self-deprecating smile. As she starts to lead them in that direction, she considers just how -- familiar this is, and how refreshing that familiarity is.

[lethermindwander]

Christine follows Meg's lead without question. It takes her back to a simpler time. The two of them walking like this through some of the darker passages in the opera, telling each other silly stories. Giggling and poking fun at the latest Opera Ghost incident. The absurd, perfectly normal happenings that the other girls would think were caused by the supernatural.

"The weather here is so nice," Christine remarks, finding the silence that had fallen between them to be uncomfortable, "I've forgotten what it's like to be in a place where it's sunny instead of cloudy and rainy all of the time. London can be so dreary."

[duballet]

It's funny, how that seems like so long ago and yet almost yesterday. Their ready smiles, their eager chatter, how comfortable they were with each other. It's something Meg doesn't think about most days, but something she's glad to at least be imitating today, gladder than she can say.

Of course, it's not exactly like before, and that observation -- about the weather, of all mundane things -- is a reminder. She tries not to take it to heart.

"I don't think I'd like too much rain," Meg says with a shrug. "I'm sure there's lots else can be said for the city, but I like variety in the weather when I get to actually go out in it."

[lethermindwander]

"So much rain inevitably creates much mud. Which my son very much likes to indulge in but I would really rather he not," Christine muses for a moment, thinking of all the times Charles has created colossal messes in the wet earth. Insatiable curiosity, that boy has.

Which then it dawns on her that she hasn't spoken any words of her son to Meg before just now. She stops in her tracks and turns towards her friend, one hand flying up to her mouth in shock.

"Meg! I have a son! How could I have neglected to tell you that I am a mother! I am so terrible to have not mentioned him immediately!" He is the biggest light in her life, these days. The one thing that kept the shadows at bay.

"His name is Charles. He'll be seven in two weeks, on the 27th of July."

[duballet]

Immediately, Meg's eyes go wide, but she bursts out laughing, almost hysterically for a moment. "I'm -- I'm sorry," she manages, shaking her head. "It's just that you're not terrible at all. We were so taken aback by seeing each other, and -- anyway, it's perfectly normal, I think."

She has to take another minute to really let that reality sink in, though. Christine, a mother. It seems unreal, like a game almost. Are they truly old enough to have children of their own now?

"Please, tell me everything about him," Meg presses, squeezing Christine's arm.

[lethermindwander]

It is a rather funny moment and honestly, it is so typically Christine. It's good to know that on some level, she hasn't changed as much as she believes she has.

She still feels guilty for being so distracted by her thoughts that she had forgotten to mention Charles. Meg's words ease her, though. It is true, they had gotten caught up in the shock of running into each other once more.

"He's far too clever for his own good," Christine says, "he loves music, he's already rather talented on the piano. Every day, when Raoul returns home, he will jump from the third step on the staircase, throwing himself into Raoul's arms. I'm sure my dear husband tires of this and yet he is such a kind soul that he never stops it," Christine could talk about Charles for hours but she stops there. She always disliked when other women would boast about their children to an excessive degree. She very much doesn't want to be that sort of parent.

[duballet]

It's charming, is what, and Meg listens attentively, glad to hear that Christine has such solace in her life. (She's never thought about having children herself, really, it doesn't go with a life such as hers. Or it doesn't usually. But it's clear Christine enjoys it.)

"He sounds charming," Meg assures, nodding. "Who does he favor more, you or Raoul?" An innocent question, but she wants to get a picture of the boy in her mind.

[lethermindwander]

For a brief moment, all the color drains from Christine's face again. She has never quite been able to answer that question with grace. Raoul had it practiced, his response scripted and automatic. Though part of her wonders if if was simply because Raoul didn't see the obvious truth in front of him.

Christine looks at Meg and finds that she cannot lie to her friend. Not about this.

"He...looks like neither of us. Nor anyone from either of our families," The implication is there. This is the closest she has ever been to admitting that Charles was not truly Raoul's son.

"I suppose," she sighs, "I should tell you the rest of my story, shouldn't I?"

[duballet]

In that one remark, Meg suddenly has a very strong suspicion of what is going on. Of course. Suddenly everything makes sense, or she thinks it does anyway.

Luckily, they're approaching the park, and with a gentle squeeze she steers Christine inside.

"I would be honored if you would," she murmurs.

I HAVE MOSTLY RECOVERED FROM MY FLU OF DEATH. I HAVE A BRAIN AGAIN. \o/

[lethermindwander]

Christine looks around for the closest bench and heads straight for it. She carefully arranges her skirts so that she may sit comfortably.

"I don't even know where to begin, Meg," Christine shakes her head, "The Angel of Music was never an angel, though I suppose everyone had figured that out before I had." She speaks in a self-depreciating tone, casting her eyes down towards the ground.

"He was a man. A horribly ugly man. No man that was alive should ever have looked as he did...and he loved me. I still don't know why on Earth he chose me...I was so young, so naive, barely understood anything at all at the time."

yay!!! also I am needy did you see my message of news

[duballet]

Meg sighs. She can tell how difficult this is for Christine to say, and that the full truth will take some dragging out, possibly.

Gentle dragging, though. Letting Christine drag it out of herself.

At first, Meg just listens. "I knew that much," she admits. "Not straightaway, but by the end of things, after... but before you left. That he was a man. That he loved you." She swallows, finding her own throat tight. "You've always been immensely lovable, Christine."

I DID, AND I FINALLY RESPONDED SORT OF. YAY? I SUCK AT REPLYING IN A TIMELY MANNER.

[lethermindwander]

The way Meg says that, it causes a familiar feeling to surge through her chest. She ignores it, though. Completely. Because it shouldn't be, should it?

Christine has enough muddled feelings to deal with. She'd rather like to ignore that sudden pang in her heart for the moment. Nothing good would come from addressing it.

"I loved him," she says it out loud for the first time since she actually told Erik that, the night that he had died, "I loved him but I didn't realize it until it was too late or just...Circumstances being what they were..." She trails off, Meg is completely right. She might have to drag some of this out of her. Or at least ask her to clarify on account of not making much sense and jumping around her story a bit.

"I was so scared, Meg. He wanted me to marry him. But so did Raoul and I loved them both so dearly...Raoul was safe, though and Erik, I wanted to say yes to him, I did. How could I, though, and then deny him any sort of physical love because I couldn't stand the sight of his abhorrent features? It would have been cruel and how could I say that I loved him when I was terrified of his touch?"

[duballet]

Luckily, Meg is more than adept at ignoring such pangs. That's a skill she's honed over the course of many, many years and one she's kept from everyone, even her mother, even Christine. It's easier this way.

She listens seriously, intently. None of this surprises her, somehow. How much of her mother's knowledge did she glean over the years? She's not entirely sure, consciously; perhaps more slipped in than she realized.

"You were torn," she finally surmises. "Caught between the both of them, so different." She does not offer judgment on those differences or Christine's opinion of them, only says, "That must have been impossible." With a nod, as if to say, go on. Keep talking.